BB200 2022*

*no placenames have been used in this report so no spoilers for the November crew.

I get pretty fed up with the comparison between bike packing, unsupported racing and life - especially work. "It teaches me resilience for my job" Bollocks. If your job ever puts you in the hole I am in now -you need to leave and get a new job.

I wanted to get a blue badge this year. In the (all of 2 weeks) build-up between my last race and this one, I set my heart on a blue badge. I have 2 green ones already.

Last week I sat at my computer to figure out the time gaps between "aid stations"- or as we call it in the self-supported world - every village offering a food source. I worked it out for 3 speeds - 28 hours for a blue badge (6.8km/hr), 6km/hr usual Trep speed and the 36 hours time limit for a Green again (5.4km/hr).

• • •

There was nothing else for it. I'd have to ride my long legs off to make the petrol station in time for closing. My best plan was to carry a dehydrated meal for dinner & hope to top it up with hot water from the petrol station coffee machine, not cold. I left the stove behind and pared down to a top tube bag and minimalist seat pack. I still took a tarp, lightest sleeping bag and mat - despite my temptation to throw caution to the wind. I know it gets dark and revolting when I have no quality sleep.

It felt too easy at first. I met Tom coming the other way at the top of a road climb - which alerted me to my wrong turn. He's right, I do owe him beer.

Nelson and Hannah soon caught and passed me. I wouldn't see any of them again.

Finally we turned off road and I instantly regretted not switching to grippier tyres until I got used to my racing tyres and thanked myself later for sticking with the lightweight option (as I pushed the bike uphill and needed to lift it over fences).

At the next descent, torrents of water paid testimony to 3 days rain just-passed as spray peeled off the tyres and onto my legs. I went in for the gaiters and they stayed on until lunchtime when they got too warm to tolerate.

• • •

Cath caught me up on the way into town and I started off by almost leading her the wrong way then calling her Fiona all day. Sorry!

We spent the cruel detour chatting as much as we could, debating loss of layers. We did some bike-sitting outside the shops as John (see later) popped in to buy his lunch, then Cath and I set off together for a while. One steep push-up and all my cyclocross training separated us again as Jay and Mart/k(?) caught up to take the reins. We switched around the order of things as I passed them faffing or snacking and they were faster on the bike.

• • •

Eventually a steep climb left me just taking time to walk while I ate some food - partly so the eating was easier, partly to get a rest from my saddle. My mates disappeared over the hill, only for me to catch them again. They were filling water bottles by a river. The moon was rising behind. There should have been a kiss. I thought we were nearly at the pub so I'd wait to fill my water bottle there. 

We weren't nearly at the pub. 

Landmarks came & went. There was no pub. Another rider caught me as I faffed. Sorry dude I never got your name. He was younger, fitter, more gravelly. Then there were 4 of us for awhile, and just as quickly our young friend pulled away, as did Jay, chasing the closing times at the pub.  There was a lot of hungry struggling from all of us.

I arrived at the petrol station to our young friend eating, Jay & Mark/t heading up to the pub and then John arrived. (I have no idea what his name is so John will have to do).  There were 3 of us again. 

We debated whether the others would make it out of the pub.

I brewed up my dehydrated curry which was fantastically shit. Sorry Firepot, it didn't hydrate on just 400ml and I couldn't be arsed to fetch more water.  It was ridiculously spicy for an adventure meal. No. 

Half of it got packed in case I needed it later then I regretted carrying it, it was so bad. I enjoyed coffee a bag of crisps so stocked up on some other stuff before setting off again with John just behind me.

• • •

I mused on my plan - were there really, as I remembered, lots of road miles between here & the next stop? Probably not but I thought, maybe. I piled on leg warmers - my waterproof coat for extra warmth and set off.

Of course just as Cath (Fi) arrived, we were ready to go. We wished her well.

There weren't more road miles We were on a bridleway - in a field. The road wasn't far away - so close that when I hit it I called out "not far" to John behind me. He passed me in the forest with a "What brings you here at this time of night?" As the stream ran down the path we were walking on I responded with "the water, I just fucking love the stuff" He offered to help me lift my bike over the fallen tree but I was resolutely purist, admitting I'd have said yes had we been on a fun event and not a personal ITT "challenge".  I slung the bike under and just about managed to un-wedge the Jones bars from the fallen trunk whilst I scissor-kicked my legs over.

Onto the steepest of descents. My pal had ridden ahead. At the top the tyre track was so deep in the gully I could crawl either side on my knees.

In the middle I cursed Stu. This wasn't any good for tall people at midnight as the trees whipped my helmet. Then I remembered I had a dropper post which helped a person of almost 6ft a little better.

At the bottom the slope threatened to tip me over - thank god for the dropper post.

I dealt with the chill by keeping turning the pedals on the road section. I knew where I was and there was a flat grassy patch ahead I'd scoped to sleep in if I was desperate but I wasn't desperate enough as it was too open and breezy.  I reasoned that there might be somewhere lower down (but before I reached "The Fog") that would be warmer and out of the wind.  I had my eye on the shelter of some bracken and briars.  

Climbing up the mountain road I let a few drivers pass as this is rural Wales and you never know how drunk/high people are at midnight.  The second guy turned off at my exit from the road, parked up and turned his lights off.  I rode past as quickly and discretely as I could hoping I wouldn't by mauled by released dogs or joy-ridden off the route.  My plan to pitch up for a sleep was being scuppered by the thought of a rogue 4WD rolling through my pitch at 2am.

The route detangled into a stream of ruts and puddles.  I fell in one and when I went to put my foot down there was nothing there and my whole body weight pitched onto one hand.  There was a lot of swearing and one soggy hip as I tried to wrestle myself upright again.  

Just then I noticed my water bite value starting to leak. I did the best I could to stow it away from my shorts but my left leg was soaked again.

As we descended into town, I felt a cold drip of water run straight down my bum crack from the spray off my back wheel. What kind of fresh hell? Though I was actually impressed that the shorts had done this good a job at keeping me dry so far.  I stopped and added my goretex trousers over the knee warmers, hoping that my body would push the trapped moisture out into the cold night air. I'd noticed the temperature inversion at the petrol station and the valleys were only starting to get colder. By the time we approached town, I couldn't face camping low down away from the Bridleway so thought I'd push on through. By the time I reached John snacking, I was hell-bent on reaching the town at the bottom of the valley and climbing back out again as soon as possible.  I checked he was OK and continued on.  It was the last time I'd see him.

I wasn't really OK though.  I was a bit sleepy and I also recognised that if I were going to carry on I'd need to wear my insulating layer to ride on.  When I saw a sign for public toilets, I felt like all my prayers had been answered.

Tentatively I tried the door on the ladies'. Not only were they open, it felt so warm inside. I set my bike against the wall, folded the baby change station back and sat down on my sit mat. Perfect. Wrapped in my sleeping bag I fell asleep with a bar of chocolate in hand, my head wedged between the cubicle wall and the baby-change table. At some point the motion sensor reset and the lights went out. I grabbed my pillow & blew that up but couldn't be bothered with my mat. It was too much effort and thought it'd look worse to have blown up a camping mat if I was disturbed and moved on.  I tried lying down with my bum on my sit mat but it was too cold and uncomfy on the tile floor so I sat up again and used the pillow to prop up my knees so they didn't feel locked-out. I slept a little more, only being disturbed by someone else leaving the gents next door and I wondered if it was John. My alarm went off at 3 am and I stayed in my makeshift bed a little longer - consuming the breakfast I had carried with me all day - which was very satisfying compared to chocolate and crisps.

Before I left I tried my new toothpaste tablets but was too lazy to dig out my toothbrush. I was pretty disappointed that the chalky, flouring lumps just stuck to my teeth uselessly and I probably swallowed more of it than I should have.

• • •

I redressed in my goretex trousers for warmth and tried on my highland trail Marigolds for extra hand warmth but they were too tight to fit over my long finger gloves - good job it didn't rain. I had liner gloves with me that did a great job of making my hands feel warmer and I tore into the warmer pads I'd packed at the last minute on Friday night - putting one in each of my gloves and my waterproof socks.

There were a few cars still moving around town - people coming home from clubs in Aber, I guess, or going to work. I passed through town and onto yet another steep bridleway, constantly looking out for the haematite-coloured glow of a lightening sky in the East. It didn't come soon enough to stop my second wave of sleepiness The toothpaste incident had left me feeling somewhat sick and I didn't dare drink any more of the half-empty bottle of coke in case it ended in some kind of volcano effect. Eventually I decided to try it out and stop for a turbo kip while the sun came up and/or I vomited.

This time I got my Tyvek out to lay on the damp grass and threw my tarp over me like a makeshift bivi.  I put the sit mat under my bum and just used my helmet as a pillow. I was warm enough in all the layers I was still wearing from town and by elevation I was above the temperature inversion.

I didn't need a second alarm, the birds started singing above me.

• • •

Crows were caw-ing and a red kite mewled overhead. When I opened my eyes the sun was already rising. I got moving again, getting joined by a much faster rider who gleefully told me he'd had a luxurious sleep in his little tent, then he was gone as I continued to deal with night demons and my dodgy tummy.

One thing that was reassuring me was the passage of kms. No matter how rubbish I was feeling, 70 soon turned into 30km to go and I started to believe that a sub-28 hour finish was possible. 

I constantly recalculated. Going up hills it didn't look good. At the bottom of downhills it seemed just in reach then my gears started to play up. Several people had already been laughing at the bizarre noises coming from my drive train but now, when I went to shift up, the change only came 20 or 30 seconds later when I least expected it. It was not what tired legs were expecting for the rolling hills and country lanes to the finish. I checked the distance to go and the elevation profile and discovered a new climb which I had completely forgotten about. Selective memory? 800m! FFS

All of a sudden it didn't seem doable. A band of 3 merry men came by. Each one asked me if I was Ok. I was not Ok. They didn't hang around long to talk to the grumpy old lady. The last guy passed saying, "It's ok, we've got all day". I did not want all day. There was no way I could go on feeling this shit all day and this would be a lot of effort to go through just for another green badge. Serious thoughts of quitting entered my mind. It felt like there was little between me and the finish but a lot of time. In the next village I went to have a sit on a bench then realised the 3 merry men were along the road a little sitting at tables outside a shop serving coffee. Perfect.

In theory I waved goodbye to time limits and decided to stop for a lovely brew with my new friends, try not to depress them any further, and eat some cake.

For the fifth time that morning I decided it was all stupid, I wasn't going to play any more and the clock could go to hell. I'd have had a lovely sleep if it hadn't been for that pesky alarm. What was I rushing back for anyway? The coffee, cake and company was good and I found I was slick at getting my stuff together and getting on the road. By the time the guys caught me up I had stopped to remove my layers before the big push up to the wind turbines in the sky. For a moment I started to think 28 hours was still doable.

Somehow, two "camp" stops meant my gear was all awry and despite ditching/eating a lot of food it was quite a challenge to repack all my bags. Some things that had been packed away had to be unpacked, relocated and repacked and my coke bottle finally drained and squashed just to squeeze my gaiters into my stem cell bag. There was stuff everywhere.

• • •

I set off up the climb at an angry stomp. I was soon off the bike and pushing but the coffee and calories were doing their thing. The canister of tuna bean salad I'd been carrying for 2 days was digging into my shoulder blades but there was no time to stop and sort it out.

An undefined track across tussocky moorland leads to a wind farm. Only the thought of gravel roads leading to the turbines brought me any hope and then the locked gates came.

The first was the worst. A primal scream was the only mechanism I had to lift the heavy bike over the tall fence and then I got the rear wheel caught on the barbed wire and dropped the whole thing hard onto the crushed stone, carbon bars first. That made me mad. Then some gymnastics to get me over the awkward gate rendered un-climbable by the anti-sheep mesh welded in place.

The next one was easier but still annoying. The third one was taking the piss. There was a lot of swearing as I wondered: why lock the internal gates? Do wind turbines escape? Surely it's inefficient for the work crews. I was further enraged by the perfectly acceptable bike gates at the other end with full, unhindered access.

The tuna salad still dug into my back but I was cheered up by a happy farmer on a quad bike giving me a wave with his stupid collie grinning into the morning sunshine.

I checked the distance to go: 13km in 24 minutes. 32 kms/hr average - a big downhill but some flat and short, steep climbs on the road to go. First gravel then slate flew by under wheel, then more gates - horrible gates. Gates you have to get off for. Gates you have to lift shut. 

8km in 20 minutes 24 km/hr. I flew down the hillside, cow shit and water spraying everywhere. For once the cows were running the other way- thank god.

6km in 12 minutes but now there was tarmac and a sweet, sweet tail wind. I stamped on pedals, hauled the bars span my legs on the downhill till I couldn't go any faster then tucked hard. Begged drivers not to pull out, took the racing line, ran the red light through the roadworks because it will catch you even if you wait for green. 2km to go in 5 minutes. I rounded the bend. No-one was in the carpark to witness my elation. I totally missed the driveway so ran down the stairs with my bike and banged on the windows.

"I'm back".

27 hours 58 minutes. One very happy Trep.

3 Peaks cyclocross 2022

Up at 5am. Van loaded drove up noting all the places we should have booked to stay when I realised I couldn't face the faff of camping. Had a relaxing start to the day though - once we'd arrived. I don't want to face the pre-race travel anxiety again.

It was relaxing until I went to check my tyre Pressure & all the air came out when the tubeless valve unscrewed. Then I couldn't get it to inflate until I gave it a spin. It popped off the rim in the meantime. I hurriedly blasted it up to 50psi. Thank god I brought the blast pump.

I joined the crowd of people at a random point in the field There was hunting for Helen Jackson, number 30, who had forgotten her dibber. There was a briefing I couldn't hear.

• • •

For 15 minutes I dicked about on the start line with Rich and Tom and heckled my parents and then we were jostling for position through the road junction. Most people went around me. I didn't panic except to stay in contention with the wheels to avoid being in the breeze on my own. I had a chat with a first timer seeking old timer advice, then she rode away too. I was a little concerned that I was last, coming over the final hill climb but then I saw the familiar jersey of Brian Renshaw ahead of me. I actually checked my watch for the first cut-offs and started to sprint but once I'd turned off the road I relaxed, assuming the cut-off to beat the gate. I'd never had to worry about * this one before.

Off the road, I rolled over the cattle grid and my rear rim smacked against the bars. I could see it bulging under my weight. After asking Brian what we were doing back here, I hopped off the bike to start pumping up my tyre. Lots of people, including the commissaire, offered help but no one had a decent pump so I persevered, putting in as much pressure as I could fathom (about 50psi) then set off gingerly - hardly daring to ride the rocks or jump on.

With more air in my tyres, I soon started to catch up but not until I had been heckled by 3 5ths of the Thackaray family for my traditional slow start.

I caught up to Brian & we decided that as near-OAPS we were allowed to spend 2 hours warming up. Back in my comfort zone on Simon Fell, I set about overtaking a steady stream of people and at the top, lept effortlessly over the stile. Thanks to my running training. The next bit tested my tyres enough for me to start to trust them, though they were so solid I spent quite a lot of time sliding sideways on the grass and the limestone. They didn't seem to be losing pressure and that was the main thing. I jogged over the summit to dib then interchanged between walking/chatting to Rachel Mellor and riding my bike, finally. The descents didn't seem nearly so far compared to Scotland and I hardly noticed it except for a few squeaky moments of thinking the back end was going to overtake the front end (sideways). I might have set a pb. I'd decided I probably had enough food on board for a no-stop approach so I rattled past my family at the bottom, onto the road where I ate - and rode - like a lunatic, intent on racing those time limits. I even managed to inhale food and almost cause a traffic jam at the road junction as I spluttered through.

Ian was in his usual spot. The spectators deckchairs and blankets at Chapel Le Dale looked tempting. The road up to the farm was taken at leisure for its climbing, knowing that I'd be taking a nice walk up the hillside, snacks in hand, munching away.

By the third cereal bar I was already feeling bloated an sick of cereal bars then my friend Sue Thackaray (4th 5th) appeared in amongst the hikers wielding a... no THE tin of flapjack. Sue's flapjack is the best. Tasty and the fellside-setting only compliments it.  

The things I would do for Sue's flapjack. I took 2 pieces, stuffing one into my jersey pocket, pretty sure I was near the back still and there were plenty left.

She told me to keep going steady.  Au contraire, I was racing like mad to meet the cut-offs and would worry about Pen Y Ghent when I got there.

I caught 2 male riders up & we compared notes. What's next, number of completions, how ride able to the summit? We moved into the cloud. Substantially wetter air that condensed on helmets, dripping.

At the fence I lifted my bike over politely scattering 3 walkers gathered for lunch then walked around to grab my bike off the guy who helpfully passed it to me with a smile saying, "there you go! Just like new".

The jolly marshalls hiding on the ley side of the wall from the Northerly wind were all smiley and jolly. I resolved to continue the descent without my coat on yet, in the hope that we'd get out of the cloud soon enough and it would get warmer with altitude.

I looked on whist fully as a hiker sheltering from the wind poured tea from a flask. All I wanted from then on was a hot drink.

• • •

I was looking forward to the descent. While I still didn't really trust my tyres, I've grown a bit of a mountain bikers brain over the last 2 years. Unfortunately I missed the good steep lines and tyres and shoes faltered on the limestone.

When I had to walk on rocks carrying my bike the outside of my right shin and the muscles on the outside of my ankle got painfully tight. A new kind of agony from insufficient hiking in cycling shoes, I guess. Oh how I wished it had been boots weather.

I ran across the tussocks + grass instead then rejoined the limestone slabs when I could, the bloke behind passing me when he got his confidence back. I still nursed the tyres down the gravel a little - I knew I needed to finish. The sight of the ambulance slowed me down on the wide track and I stopped to put my coat on as it began to rain full-on. and I moved over to let the Ambulance pass. My friend Ann B cheered me on from underneath her hood, out on a hill walk.

Embarrasingly I then had to harass the ambulance until it stopped to get out of my way before hauling across the river while I took the easy way across the footbridge. No, I have no shame and I was also slightly sorry I didn't get to watch the off-road ambulance cross the 3ft boulders in the river bed as he banged and scraped his way across.  The casualty in the back must've had quite a ride!

There were so many well wishers on the run down to the viaduct it was special to get there and I chatted to the person recovering the Ambulance riders' bike. I chickened out of most of the Ribblehead drop-off and met my family who, to my disappointment, had drunk all the coffee. My hot drink would have to wait. Off I went into the weather. The legs felt relatively good. The little steep climb on the road was ridden, unlike some years where I've had to get off and walk.  I had 20 minutes to do a very short section of easy road and no head-wind, maybe even a tail wind.

None of my support came past me which justified me not relying on them for my feed stops. My run vest had everything in it that I needed and I did a quick reshuffle of the right hand pocket into the left. A salted caramel cereal bar went down a treat in the absence of a pack of crisps which was what I really wanted. The snickers bar was a brilliant boost.

Horton in Ribblesdale was eerily quiet. Usually there are people lining the streets cheering but my lateness, combined with the steady drizzle meant most people had either gone or were tucked up in their homes and holiday cottages. I was kind of relieved to see the race organisation appear at the bottom of the hill, though hardly anyone noticed me as they all had their backs to me watching riders over 1 hour ahead coming down the hill.

Suddenly all the noise was back, the core body of spectators was there. "Dutch" corner where my team mates cheered, clad in Euskatel-orange jerseys. Cyclocross rider.com Cheered frenetically in my ear. Then I got off and walked THE BIG STEP, satisfied that I had still ridden quite far up the lane without my legs failing me before the big, rocky lump. I lay my bike down to remove my coat one more time, realising I was boiling in it and as wet on the inside as out. Through the fatigue I realised I could keep it in my pocket and, later, wear it over my running vest to save me taking the vest off again.

I had company on the climb as I caught up and passed tired blokes and consumed chocolate. I also had cheers with Hannah Saville, Stu Taylor, Darrell Bradbury, Rich (concerned for Tom) then Tom.

Sorry Rick, I told-on-you for being ahead.

By the time I reached the end of the rocky climb the hill cloud was in full force and we were walking in the blast of Northerly winds so I paused at a cairn (the only place with any shelter) to put my coat on before trudging up the purgatory staircase to the summit. It stopped the shivers and I hoped it might stop the cramp which was just tickling the edges of my conscious and my thighs but not quite materialising. I often suffer cramp on the way up PenY Ghent but was pleased it held off as long as it did. I often have to growl and have a word with my legs.

I dibbed quickly & got on my way back - a bit of a grassy loop to rejoin the main path further down. For a moment the cloud broke to allow a sliver of golden sunlight to illuminate the old route back to Whernside and the Gunnerside fells beyond. I took a moment, just a moment, to enjoy it before embarking on the downhill.

• • •

The guys who had been trailing me suddenly found legs on the downhills. My appetite for steep descents was sated so I walked the worst of it. I wanted to get home in 1 piece & still ride the BB 200 in 2 weeks A bothy bag deployed by MRT on the grassy bank was my first trigger to slow down. When I reached the Ambulance at the bottom of the steep rocky section, I had to ask, "are you just parked here to remind me I don't like this bit and I really should walk it". They said they were there to remind me I'm awesome-which was nice but being slow is nothing special - it's one hard ride. Training to be any good - that's the definition of awesome.

I was on the bike then for the rest of the descent though I think I might have walked the big step as my legs were shot.

As I thundered down the track I checked on a spectator rider sitting in the grass with his wheel off.

He just managed to ask if I had a spare tube before I was out of earshot. I stopped 50m later. Emptied a tube out of my tool bag and carried on "I'll get a tube to you," he said, asking my number. I told him not to worry, remembering I found a tenner in the park 6 weeks ago. I told him to pay it forward one day. He insisted but rather than give him my race number (hidden under my jerseys I gave him number 30 instead. I knew Something was wrong with that but couldn't think what!  I later had to message Helen Jackson on facebook and tell her some stranger would probably message her offering to post her an inner tube.

There were still a few people coming up hill for a while but eventually they stopped. I was disappointed that the woman I had been with on the road ride out did not seem to have made it, unless she'd been on the summit loop just behind me.

The joy of descending Pen Y Ghent lane with a clear line makes it almost worth being at the back. The only people to dodge are the straggling supporters making their way off the hill and they'll cheer for you and get out of your way.

• • •

I rounded the corner to the final drop to find my dad, wheels in hand, heading up the Lane "just in case". I tapped him on the arm as I passed then dropped down to where TSK, mum and Po, Sinead and Nicky were all cheering while bemused ramblers learned my name, shouted across the road by my support... and they wonder where I get my loud mouth from?

The hard bit was yet to come.

TSK followed me in on his bike which meant he got to witness the glory of my final mile cramps. I thought I'd got away with it as the flat road sections did not seem to bother me. Then I suddenly realised that my drinking tube, compressed under my coat, had been gradually weeing on my left leg all the way down the hill and my legs and shorts pad were soaked.

I lost the end off the tube trying to stop the leak and just emptied the water all over the road which was better than down my quads.

As soon as I hit the road climb the familiar cramp kicked in but I have known it worse and despite the yowling, slapping, growling and free-wheeling half way up a climb, I made it to the top and the fun descent to the finish line. The happy tone of a race marshal whistle to let people know a rider is coming home.

All day people had been telling me I was "still smiling "still doing it". I was honest with myself. I knew it wouldn't be a fast year, I just wanted to get around. My "training has had to be more about fixing the bike up and resting enough than actually riding my bike so I was relying on residual strength and endurance from the long stuff I've been doing. 

With every peak ticked off, every trickle of hope I'd make the cut offs and every positive experience (not getting cramp at all climbing Penny Ghent was a huge win), I felt pleased that I could drag my body out of the fat and lazy shell it crawled into during Covid and menopause and actually make it do crazy things again and not feel too bad afterwards. 

I kept my "run" of 3 Peaks races in tact - another one to chalk up on the "done" board.  Despite the lack of glorious scenery, I just had the' best' time, out in nature with mates. It was a year that I needed mother nature to smile on me, not slow me down and she did and for that I am truly grateful. Cyclocross is here and I'm looking forward to the rest of the season.

(c) Laura and Gary Jackson

3 Peaks cyclo-cross 2022 preamble

Have you ever had an event that is in your heritage, that defines your whole year?

The 3 Peaks cyclo-cross is mine. It started in 1961 (give or take a few early attempts). 

I was 6 months in the womb for my first attendance in 1973 and 9 months old when I first attended in 1973 as an individual babe in arms, to watch my dad run ride and stumble across the bogs of North Yorkshire. In those days it really was a hard race that earned it the title of 'the hardest bike race in the world', before thousands of footfalls warranted the surfacing of the most popular routes up "the Peaks".

My best childhood memories are of playing in the river before the start, waiting at dry stone walls for my dad to pass and sometimes getting icecream on the way. Other times sheltering from the storms. The first year that my mum didn't come, I was put in the car with Theressa, my dad's friend's partner.  It was a real treat.  Theresa smoked, took pride in her appearance and was large as life.  She was also an accomplished bike mechanic.  It was a good weather year and we parked up in a pub and sat outside to wait for the riders to come.  I had a lemonade and she had a G&T.  The riders never came and it took us a while to realise we were at the wrong pub and both my dad and Neil had completed most of the race without any support.

A few years later (at the right pub), Theressa told me that building wheels was one of the most cathartic things you can do.  I didn't know what cathartic meant but eventually I found out that she was right and every wheel I build has a little bit of her soul in it.

At the age of 14, I supported my dad by riding the support route on my own bike.  These were still the days when supporters could share the road bits of the route with the riders because there were still only 50-or-so entrants.  Everyone was impressed with my endurance, I started to dream that one day I'd do the route.

In 1995 at the age of 22 I was on the startline of my first.  I don't know why I didn't enter in my 21st year but that was also the year my grandfather died and I might have been in France.  Who knows?  I'd love to say every year is memorable, but increasingly, they all roll into one.  There have been highlights and lowlights.  The year we all went super fast and no one is quite sure if it's a records or timing error?  The year it was boiling hot.  The torrential years or those where the wind blew so hard it was almost impossible to stand on the summit of Whernside.  In my second year at University when I gave myself food poisoning the week before the event and I couldn't get the calories back in fast enough.  I got cramp after Whernside so bad that I just waited for my mate to come by in the car and pick me up.  Two years later when I knew I could finish - I was in good form but running slow due to the weather and got cut off at PenYGhent.  I cried solidly for two hours.

Racing with my dad, being beaten by him two years later, the last few years where I'd finish up to an hour before him and spend a nervous hour on the finish line waiting for him (and my car) to finish the course with my husband at the wheel playing patient mechanic.  The year dad DNF'd because his rear quick release broke and no-one had a quick release to lend him before he got cut off at PenYGhent.  The year he accidentally did the whole thing without insoles in his shoes.  The podiums for the daddy/daughter prize.

The first year of racing with my husband in the field, climbing Simon Fell together.

Friends jumping out at me from places where I least expect them: my Sheffield mate Emma and her girlfriend replacing my dad's old friend Ian in the driveway to the quarry half way along the road section; Ian Fitz showing up at Rawnsley's leap - the stile over the wall on top of Ingleborough.  Then there's Ruth Gamwell, my arch nemesis, holding the record for female completions (I'm second).  This is a woman who schedules her pregnancies around the race, I'm sure of it... and didn't miss three editions in order to go to Canada for three years.  It's down to which one of us survives the menopause best!

Anyway, I probably write the same old nostalgic  bullshit every year. 

Every year before the race I look at myself and wonder if it will be a good year.  This year I am expecting nothing of myself.  I am desperately hoping to finish.  It's one of those years where I know I haven't worked hard for it - I've done little specifically for it except in the last few weeks when I've deployed my usual approach of cramming like a teenager working for their A-levels.

The 3 Peaks somewhat sneaked up on me as a surprise this year. Back in January I was suffering the lethargy that is the Menopause, suspected I was dying of something obscene and didn't know if I'd even ride the Highland Trail. I seemed to have done no real training for anything and had ceased my camp outs.

With the Highland Trail going Ok in the end, I was hopeful Andrew had done my 3 Peaks entry for me while I was away (1st June) but also unsure if I wanted to contemplate training for another event. After all, I generally spend the last 3 days of the Highland Trail fantasizing about selling all my bikes and buying a puppy.

Entries didn't open until July so in the end I had to make my own mind up. Not entering felt like letting the entire family down, including myself, so I entered. It took me a while to know that I really was going to ride.  In fact I started training, then backed off, then came back to it so I only really committed the last 3 weeks to it, in amongst trying to get my bike ready.  Weirdly, it's my bike that's really pulled this year together for me.  

I was dreading my first ride on it. I anticipated it being harsh and uncomfortable and that all of my muscle memory for cyclo-cross would be gone.  Could I still jump on?  Would the lump on my shoulder support my bike frame any more?  Would I cripple my back?

Our first outing was on road slicks and it was weird and narrow for a while - not just my tyres but the handlebars.  At the end of the ride, my old lady bingo-wings ached.. We did an exhausting, flat 50km ride to the East of Sheffield and I was really worried. 

A day later I put knobbly tyres on and went for a proper ride. First off I needed to negotiate a rocky descent in my local park surrounded by Saturday on-lookers, which I did successfully - only dabbing once I got into the trees.  

My first 'cross "hurdle" is 500m from home - a wooden box at 8" above ground level designed to pass Horses onto the bridleway but prevent motorcycles. The dismount was cool, I've been jumping of mountain bikes for 3 years but could I get back on? I ran, held my breath, lept. It wasn't pretty but I managed it.  More to the point, I realised my saddle is much lower down than on the mountain bike.

Over the next few weeks the bike set up improved as I threw some money at it for the first time since I've had it. There's still more to do but hopefully that will come through this week.

My breakthrough ride came yesterday. Sure, I set out to do a big-ish ride. It was supposed to be relaxed with essential coffee and cake breaks but I didn't carry much of a lock and only a few nuts and chocolate in my new run vest which doubles up as a hydration pack and was out for its first test run. I forgot that joining the trails from the bottom of the valley was a real chore but then recognised the opportunity to properly test out my bike running/carrying with the backpack on. Much to my surprise and joy, I effectively bunny hopped the kerb and rode the first steep section before a short, flat recovery and then the climb-proper starts.

As I'd promised myself, I had a quick jog-ette which seemed to stick quite nicely so I kept it going as long as I could. I was all smiles when I jumped back on & rode past an astonished family. The remainder of the climb to Coldwell Lane was tackled "direct" and the byway descended at fun-speed. Time for pre-lunch cake at the Apple Shak to remind myself I that this wasn't supposed to be a race-effort.

To make some progress towards different and inspiring terrain I made a bee-line for Houndkirk and Longshaw. This Bee-line includes the "easygoing trail" for horses which is actually a scrabbly 16% slope of gravel. I managed to ride 1/3 of it until my wheel span out, then I enjoyed the run to the top, jumped back on the bike and rode through the park to bypass Lodge Moor then tanked across the road to Houndkirk.

• • •

The cafe at Longshaw was packed so I continued to Curbar.  Instead of riding around the cyclist's climb, I hopped off, shouldered the bike and scrambled up to the top layer of crag, hopping from rock to rock.  Of course, I acquired quite an audience for the final big step and was relieved, to say the least, when my knee didn't let go at the sight of the 24 inch high rock.  Instead I just smacked myself in the forehead with my handlebars as the front wheel pinged off the gritstone.  

The cafe at Curbar gap mean sitting in a carpark (as I was too hungry to takeaway) but the food was filling and I stuffed 3/4 of a cookie into my jersey pocket. I concluded that the descent from Eaglestone was about as close as I'd get to PenYGhent steep-and-loose but nevertheless I enjoyed it and stayed in control.

Given the choice of the main road to Chatsworth on the bank holiday weekend of Queen Elizabeth's funeral or the A623 road to Calver, I decided Calver was the better option.  I got distracted by a turn off to the village which led me past pretty stone cottages then up a bloody steep hill which brought me out exactly where I wanted to be - at the beginning (end) of a bridleway I rode last year on my Birthday with Landslide and Reg. I had no idea where it went because I was too hungry to remember the day after my birthday - but I'd figure it out (and I had a map).

I rode as far as I could up the lane which was another stupidly steep strip of concrete pock-marked with the imprint of the stone chip that was once scattered over its moist sticky surface but was now splayed unceremoniously over the entire road surface without being attached to anything. It's hard to say whether my lungs or traction were the limiting factor.

At the top I debated sometime over my route. I was looking for a highland cow which just wasn't there this time.

After turning back at a junction of footpaths I finally found the bridleway and, eventually, the cow.

I skirted the quarry which I vaguely remembered from last time then materialised in a pleasant little valley at a junction of 4 bridleways. Where I was fairly sure we had come from straight ahead last time and looked left and right to the tune of "No thank you mate!", I turned right. It went straight up again but I was getting tired and so I'd decided to get going toward home instead of getting carried away and doing too much the week before a race. (I suspect it was already too late). I headed for Eyam.

The climb gave me cause to actually think about my relation­ship with this bike and cyclo-cross as a medium of racing and transport. While rough-stuff and cyclo-cross racing have been rivals in the past, let's face it, there's some impressive overlap carrying relatively light drop bar bikes over challenging terrain to get away from it all, go exciting places - go further (credit Cammile Macmillan), or even faster. This bike and I toured BC together as well as completing editions of the 3 peaks Cyclo­cross and countless national trophies and Yorkshire races. I loved the ease with which she slings over my shoulder. (accepting I have No weight on the bike at the moment!)  I wondered why I've been riding my mountain bike so much and then remembered there's no way I'd suffer the HT on a cross bike.

• • •

At the top of the Climb I took time to pause.  Two kestrels in full autumn copper-colour were hunting over the field. I stopped to play the game of "Red kite or kestrel" but they were kestrel. I got my camera out to photograph Eyam across the valley while listening to a buzzard mewling in the field on my left. Creatures ran for cover in the undergrowth by my feet.

The descent was almost as challenging as the climb. I'd just been musing about how confident I am on this bike. I feel like I'm taking her for a ride-not the other way around. We'd been in control all day.

As I rolled past the last of the quarries, some knocked down fencing and thoughts of bike packing entered my head. Before I had time to register it, my route diverted steeply through some trees. I ducked, steered, feathered the brakes then pulled them full-on but kept moving. By pure luck and a lot of hanging-on we stayed up right. So much for staying in control.  Thankfully there was a run out before I poured out onto the Via Galia and heavy traffic in both directions.

The road climb into Eyam was unexpected. For obvious reasons (exit onto a major trunk road) I've never been this way before. For a moment I contemp­lated more cake in the village but decided it was too soon. My intention to go via the Monsal trail to Great Hucklow was forgotten and I rode to Grindleford on the broken road instead which still left me with a choice of Froggat or the road to Hathersage and home that way. I plumped for Hathersage - at least I could pay penance for the road by doing the Causeway.

When that last little road kicker into Grindleford came I realised I was in a bad way. A MAMIL on a road bike empathised as we both hauled ass into the village. He carried on towards surprise view. I slumped into a heap on the benches outside the toilets and got my phone out to let Andrew know I was having a bit of a rest before I climbed the final hill.

I was getting quite into people-watching fuelled by the 3/4 cookie I found in the pocket with my phone.

Funnily enough, the nuts in my rucsac didn't get a look in. I rested so well I decided it would be fun to ride up the Dale. Unperturbed by an American hiker who, 1/3 of my way up, exclaimed, "Wow, you have a challenge ahead of you", I turned off at the bridleway and took the direct route offroad, enjoying clambering through the heather, bike on my shoulder, batting the flies and midges away on a warm autumn afternoon. At the top I took the ultimate pleasure in lifting my little light bike over the kissing gate without any effort whatsoever. Rolling down to the Norfolk arms I made the last adjustments to my front derailleur which would hopefully stop my chain coming off at the front once and for all. I had the rest of Lodge Moor to test it out on.

Sadly after Lodge Moor, I found that my newly built rear wheel had bounced hard somewhere, de-tensioned and picked up a wobble that was touching the tyre on the frame. I pumped it up hard and skewed the wheel in the frame, making a mental note to remember to pack myself a spoke key in the toolbag on the bike. I'd say it was a slow and careful ride home but after dealing with dozy middle class SUV driving clonts who can't be arsed to turn their heads enough to see cyclists approaching a downhill crossroads, it was a pretty adrenaline fuelled ride home. Still, it wasn't going to ruin a beautiful day. Nor was the niggling thought that possibly I'd peaked too early, using all of my race form up today, doing pointless A-level cramming.

If it were a mock exam I'd mark myself harshly. Race distance. More than its fair share of elevation. Not quite the same steeps (I'm convinced there's nothing like Simon Fell anywhere in the world - not in a bike race anyway). I rode for 4hrs50 minutes (cake stops not included). All I need to do now is try and deliver it all in one shot, no sitting around staring at the butterflies. What I will enjoy though is not doing it with a 25kg mountain bike on my back.

What I realise is that although I've done a few of these with the Torino Nice Rally or the Transatlantic Way "races" in my legs, I haven't ever specifically done long, local rides in prep for the 3 Peaks.  In that respect, this year is a first and so we will see... just how strong a drug endorphins really are!?

Fadtpack 2

I was going to correct my typo title but fad-packing seems like a good description,  though I hope this fad is here to stay.

This weekend I ran from the bottom of the valley, stopping at the Apple Shack.  I diverted off my usual course at Lodge Moor to take the paths around the reservoir which were more challenging than I remember. Getting caught out crawling through bracken was not a pleasant experience and I stabbed myself in the ancle with my belved poles. DOH!. 

I passed a range of swimmers / beachgoers before heading up the Causeway direct, from where I headed for high Neb for the first time in forever (except for climbing on it in my twenties). 

It was windy on top and as I climbed the stile I considered my options. The wind had gotten gale- force and was threatening to smash me and my heavy pack into the rocks. I'd say "thank goodness for poles" but they were also being blown sideways so their placement was sketchy and threatening to add to the mix by tripping me up. Still, the draw of the Neb was too much so/lay in a grassy hollow out of the gales but in the warm sun to eat the sandwiches I'd brought out. I didn't need my sit mat - the fround was so dry - except I did because I sat on a bee. That got me up and moving again. 

I chatted with climbers upon high Neb then followed my heart off the crag and across the heather to a distant Grouse moor trail to check out the bivi opportunities. There's also a stone circle there somewhere but I saved that for another day. The freedom of just shooting off on a tangent, unencum­bered by a bike -was overwhelm­ing. I traversed Burbage edge on a singletrack path lined with handlebar chocking bracken and filtered over a stile at to Heatherdene carpark to use the toilets and fill up with water. I filled the bladder in my backpack but spent plenty of time on the bench in the sun just drinking from my race cup.

Eventually I checked with another woman that the ice cream van was still at the fishery carpark before heading down out of my way to buy a magnum ice cream which I ate on my way to the dam. 

I considered the run over summer pastures but realised that the shorter route would put me on the radar of the local campsite police or in my other potential spot, facing straight into a bracing breeze so I settled on the very attractive idea of Win Hill direct with a second breakfast at Fairholmes in the morning. I was going up Winn Hill as the last few people were coming down and it's this time of day you feel thankful to be out with all that you need as others make their way home (asking directions). The sunlight dappled through the trees as it turned silver to pale Gold. The summit cairn was already occupied by another hiker - his 60th of 6000 or so. What a challenge!

I picked my way carefully down as the top of Winn Hill was the site of my most epic running crash ever. The poles should help this time.. but I'm pretty sure I stumbled at exactly the same spot. I met a rather impressively tooled up double- leg-amputee MTB rider on my way down-only noticed his Carbon blades after I'd coveted stealing his bike for the last downhill which is funny because I recon I'd have found his cleats impossible.

• • •

After jogging for a while I set off on the downhill only to recall a pretty neat bivi spot in a woodland clearing -if only I could find it... Yes! There it was. I started by doing a few laps-to identify the best spots We must've been pretty tired last time as 3 of us slept here but I concluded there was only one good spot. A bit too on top of a hillock but otherwise mossy and smooth. I sat and lay on my groundshatto test it. It wasba bit curved. I even considered cooking then moving on. It was only 6:30pm after all. The briefest of showers remin­ded me of the forecast.

• • •

Now, I'd practised pitching my old tarp with poles in my small garden at home but THIS-this new tarp was a beast. First, half a metre longer and 20 cms wider. It was light and slippery and the guy ropes were long. I was also trying to pitch it on top of a hillock. It took me 2 circuits to make the thing stand up. Thank god I brought good pegs. Then I needed to drop the windward side, which was seeing quite a breeze still. I also needed to raise the head end as rain was forecast and I wanted to be able to sit up to cook.

After a bit of swearing some more laps and some collapses I was finally pitched. I found a spare peg and string to reduce flapping as the wind ricocheted around the trees and clipped my backpack to another loop-mainly to stop the lightweight tarp getting blown away if it came loose but it also added stability in the breeze. It took me an hour to pitch and unpack all my stuff sacks so I lay on the pile of fluffy bags and had a micro nap. This rest helped me realise that potentially the best use of my Scandinavian Tarp would have been to tie it to one of the many trees around - for which its long guy ropes are designed. Oh well. Nothing like jumping in at the deep end.

I was not sorry to find I'd brought a 1000kcal meal pack along for the day so I ate a lot of chilli, skipped desert, cleaned my teeth, had a pee and was in bed for 8. I Watched the sun go, the flight path die down, the stars come out. Satellites racing, I fell asleep looking for shooting stars only to be woken by the patter of rain on my face so I retreated my pillows shoes inside and curled up to make sure my feet stayed dry at the other end. It was nice not to have the restrictions of the bivi bag or tent and for once I'd got my layers and sleeping bag just right. I was a bit too excited by the whole thing to sleep and occasionally I worried the tarp was going to flap off but my pitch was sound.

I woke up to the Sun breaking over the tops of trees and midges starting to bite my face. As the dawn chorus kicked off I tried to hide in my sleeping bag, cursing myself for forgetting my midgnet. Eventually I remembered the smidge bottle and applied it to face and hands, adding enough layers to cover the rest of my body. I ate my porridge between a buff and a hat

• • •

The midges actually didn't bother me. Still, I packed quickly and headed down the hill to the river where multiple bands of car campers fried bacon over wood fires while I tsked with disapproval, then got on with my day lest I be judged by fine lines.The day started with 2 mtb encounters on the bridleway up to Hagg Farm but from the top I straight-lined it down the side of the hill to the cafe to indulge in 10am pastie with the wildfowl.

• • •

With 22hr "active travel" yesterday, today was all about "finishing the BB20" training. Except it started out ambitious. I really enjoyed the hike to fairholmes for breakfast before the run upto the moors-direct where I realised I'd forgotten water. Still, not to panic. My trusty filter was deployed to scoop up a trickle from the brook. It took me awhile to figure out Derwent edges were still way above me and the best route there was not direct. Still I got to check out a lovely future bivi spot that I have eyed from afar many times. I avoided the masses at Lost Lad so I could sit on a quiet rock for a pee and put compeed on my feet where the skin was worn raw on the side of my soles. 

I needed to go the most direct route to Derwent Edges. I sat on the rocks at the top and consumed the large slice of cake, exported from the caf, whilst mostly hiding from the breeze and bare-chested teens.

The main path was not terrible though the occasional icy wind saw me put on my pertex skirt in public. I soon peeled away for Moscar, leaving the masses to complete their Derwent edge loop.

A hiker passed me while I sat in the grass with my shoes off, wondering what to do. He gave me the answer as he passed with his hands in his pockets. I would enjoy chocolate then saunter down to home. Also I took out my insoles which gave me some light relief. In future I will take some softer ones too.

My sauntering got me as far as Moscar Lodge where realised I had run out of water again. I though of phoning for a pick up but what else to do with a sunny day? The Streams were not forthcoming so I continued by Moscar farm, where the cows had nothing to share, and I baked my way across Rod side in the heat. I dropped down to the valley bottom as soon as I could  and not only did I fill my bottle in the river but I also sat in it for quite some time.

The insoles went back into the shoes since my feet were aching from the hiking without. One of my blister plasters had curled so I pulled it off, not realising the other end was very firmly affixed to sore skin. It was excrutiating. 

I set off again-this time with my socks inside out so the smooth fabric was next to my skin and the cushioning fibres were next to the shoe where it rubbed my feet. I didnt bother to tighten the shoes much as I was no longer running. I leant harder on my poles and picked my way down. 

The water did it's job to cool me but I was soon shivering so I removed my wet shorts, put my skirt on then added a wool top. I stuck with the valley path avoiding the A57 until the reservoirs - including a bench-stop to put moisture onto some rice pudding to fuel my final few kms home. 

My body couldn't stomach more chocolate and I thought it would be useful to know just how much longer it takes to re-hydrate food from cold water. It turns out 20 minutes is not enough, leaving me with a bag of cinnamon-flavoured rice crispies in rehydrated milk. 

I ate as much as I could stomach which was enough to get me moving and promised myself I'd not waste the rest and microwave it when I got in (it went in the bin).

At the reservoirs I took the short-flat-out and recorded my fastest km of the day, walking down the A57 as quickly as possible to get it out of the way whilst snacking on blackberries from the verge.

Back in the valley I pushed myself as fast as my feet would carry me (not very) to get home in time for some dinner - all the way assessing the easiest way back - up and flat or flat then up and down at the end. I went for up and flat despite the risk of bumping into someone I knew whilst dressed as the 17th century plague doctor with my green skirt and hat and pointed cyclist's nose. When the long flat road through the houses came, the body part that had truly had enough was the one that had been working hard all day to save the rest of me - my arms.

I put the poles across my shoulders and hung out my elbows or wrists to relax. Now/looked like green jesus. There was just the one downhill to do. The poles stretched out to 135cm and I lowered myself down the hill with every other stride as my knees buckled with each step. Back at the house I went straight inside and upstairs to lie down. Remarkably I didn't need to sleep, I just had to get the load off my feet.  So even better, I ran a bath and let the water take the nasty gravity away.

What a brilliant weekend.

Summer 2022

I hope summer 2022 is not over yet. It always reappears in September with a late come-back. However, it's got stormy and less hot hot and I've just had a long week of efforts and time away from the office so I feel the need to wrap up a post.

Thanks to my enthusiasm to open a laptop, these images are posted in mixed order and are just a handful from two busy weeks. The rest may appear on Insta at some point... or already have.

Some people attach their inspiration for completing LEL to their top tube. His kids had also doodled pictures on his frame bag 

The velomobile (at least, the only one I saw) outside Eskdalemuir. Note the extension lead hanging out the window charging his light batteries. 

Other inspirations

We were 'put up' in a little cottage down the road. Last time we volunteered here we slept in the old schoolhouse with rain hammering on the tin roof. That schoolhouse is now the cafe and the room where we previously housed riders is now an art gallery and function room. Depending on how you look at it, lucky (or unlucky) riders had a sleep there but only if they were truly exhausted. A few were. I was glad it was not my call whether to let them stop or not.

After the party had been cleared and we moved location, we went for a walk. 24km. The longest walk I've done in ages (possibly since I was ironman training).

We swam in the river Tweed to cool down and got dressed again in front of golfers on the other shore. Thankfully they found it in them to ignore my middle aged bod.

A sunset cloud above Eskdalemuir. Every night the hills would sweat their moisture into the sky leaving incoming riders damp and chilly. The mornings dawned to the chilliest little temperature inversions. It was pretty though.

The old village "clock" in St Boswells set into the wall of the house across the road from the shops.

Hillocks of the road, Borders country. Click for a castle lurking on the left. I was really pleased with my new commuter/audax bike bag which allows me to take photos without stopping. That's handy when TSK is timetrialling into a hairdryer headwind. We'd been debating stopping early for dinner which involved a diversion then retracing our route. In the end we got brave and were happy because we got to see Hume Castle, which we'd noticed on the way out. A gorgeous climb took us right past it then round the corner, a barbecue-ing family kindly replenished out water bottles for us.

Long straight b-roads in the sun with the sea fog of Berwick on Tweed in the distance. 

A kayaker on the Tweed.

When we arrived at Berwick we were in thick, chilly fog. I took this through my glasses to remove some of the solar glare off the cloud.

We dropped into England for a bit. I'd travelled no more than 300m before getting passed by a bloke in a transit van. Still, he gave me space. There were so many union Jacks and one 'the South will rise' flag which I thought a little inflammatory. TSK went for a wee and whilst I was taking this photo, heard a buzzy beastie in my teeshirt. After I apologised for stripping in public (again), two passing scots women checked my back for bees and fastened my bra up properly for me. What are strangers for?

Reg, I take your wells and I raise you. There's a themed ride here somewhere!

Back to Eskdalemuir and the amazing team lined up at the racking before things got exciting. 

Before we went to Scotland I left work on Friday night with a loaded bike and went out with Landslide for our August bivi. This is the ride home the morning after. A nearly-empty Burbage...ar least, it was still too early for the climbing groups.

No better view in the morning, even if I was a bit chilly overnight. 

Breakfast club. I am less worried than I look, although there was a cow behind me looking at my porridge.